


Loving Dragonstrike

by midwich



Series: Partners in Crime [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassin Hanzo Shimada, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Pining, Pre-Recall, irreverent treatment of dead bodies, mccree's humongous danger kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwich/pseuds/midwich
Summary: Someone is stealing Jesse McCree's kills.It takes three months to catch his first glimpse of this new rival of his — a deadly, little-known assassin who goes only by Dragonstrike. It doesn’t take much longer to fall in love.





	Loving Dragonstrike

Romance may be dead, but no one's ever told Jesse McCree.

He's in London the first time he thinks he may be in love. He's staring down at a smear of blood on the pavement, all that remains of the target that was meant to be his. There's the distinct smell of ozone in the air, as though a storm has just passed overhead.

"Guess I'm not getting paid again," he says aloud, but the sigh he gives is honestly more wistful than disappointed.

This is the fourth time he's had his target snatched out from under him. The fourth time he's come upon the scene only to find little but burnt blood and scorched pavement left behind. And of course, that familiar sweet smell of ozone, like the air after a storm.

Monaco. Ayutthaya. Lijiang. And now, London.

Someone out there is stealing his kills with ruthless efficiency.

It's been two years since the fall of Overwatch. Even longer since he last had to work with other people as part of a team. He's been on his own for some time now. And it's partly out of necessity, yes, but it's also because he's always preferred things that way. It's been a long time since he's found himself with more than a passing interest in another person that wasn't strictly business.

But this mysterious rival of his is already more than just a passing interest.

They caught his attention by the second stolen kill. Earned his respect by the third. Half won his heart by the fourth.

No one ever said Jesse McCree was the most rational of men.

As he stares down at the blood on the pavement, filling his lungs with ozone, the air of a storm, his heart gives a quick stutter.

At this point, he's already had to forfeit the payment on four jobs. But his funds are substantial, so it's definitely not worry that quickens his heart.

He decides to put in a discreet word with a couple contacts of his. Maybe see if he can dig something up about this person.

-

It takes him a month to learn that they go by Dragonstrike.

A friend in Ilios finally manages to set him up with a notoriously hard-to-find hacker and information broker.

She has a reputation for taking personal information as payment, rather than money, which Jesse isn't all that happy about — but none of his other contacts have turned up the slightest detail on his mysterious rival that he doesn't already know himself.

If there's anyone who might know something, it'll be her.

They meet in a greasy diner in Ilios that offers all day breakfast, and converse in rapid-fire Spanish that guarantees at least some level of privacy in a Mediterranean town that's ninety five percent Greek.

Jesse gets right down to business. "All I know is that they're also a merc, they've stolen five— no, six of my jobs at this point, and they always leave behind this ozone smell. Like a storm's just passed."

The hacker raises a delicate brow. She forks a piece of chorizo. "Ozone," she repeats, chewing slowly. "That's a pretty unique call sign, eh?" Her expression is thoughtful rather than blank, like all his other contacts.

"So, do you know who it is?" he asks. Thank God for his Blackwatch training, because his voice comes out even, despite the sudden surge of excitement he feels inside.

"I think so," the hacker says. "Send me a list of those jobs you got scooped on, just so I can confirm it. But I'm pretty sure I know this one. Got some info on them too, though not much. You want it?"

"Yes," Jesse says.

"Good." She leans in with a wide, shark-like grin. There's a bloody dab of ketchup on the corner of her mouth. "Now, let's discuss payment."

In the end, Jesse gives up his middle name, his age, his mother's birthday, and the exact metal alloy of his custom high-caliber bullets. And to top it all off, he owes her an extra favor.

He could've probably haggled her down eventually, maybe dropped the extra favor, but he's just too impatient to know.

Not that there's really all that much to know. In the end, all the available information on his rival is able to fit on a single A4 sheet of paper.

No photos. No background. A sparse section on suspected combat capabilities, which includes — intriguingly — the recurve bow. A very long section on confirmed kills.

A single known alias: Dragonstrike.

-

It takes three months before he catches his first real glimpse of Dragonstrike.

He's in Numbani in the worst heat of summer. Clothes clinging to the skin of his back, breath damp and sticky in his lungs.

He's not too low on funds — has since picked up a couple jobs here and there, wherever he could. All were admittedly a bit below his usual pay grade, but he'll take what he can get these days, now that Dragonstrike is snapping up every high profile target like candy.

He's not too bothered. This work has never been about the money for him — only ridding the world of all those dirty scum-of-the-earth types, human traffickers and anti-omnic terrorists and the like. Doing his part to help clean up society. The money being doled out by his anonymous clients is just an added benefit. Helps grease the wheels, so to speak.

And needless to say, if his clients themselves also happen to be the scummy sort, there's a nonzero chance they'll end up on the other end of his gun, sooner or later.

Anyway, he's in Numbani now — chasing down Kehinde Tejuoso, a close personal ally of the Scourge of Numbani, who's a confirmed member of Talon. Tejuoso often does the Scourge's dirty work in the city and acts as an inside man for the Scourge's raids on Numbani. Unsurprisingly, this has made him a lot of powerful enemies, one of whom has put out an open five million dollar hit on his head. It's anyone's game.

Jesse came to Numbani for Tejuoso, for the bounty — but also, admittedly, because this is the exact sort of target that Dragonstrike takes, and a part of him hopes that tracking down Tejuoso will lead him straight to Dragonstrike.

Tejuoso is a real paranoid son of a bitch, but he's got a huge weakness for gambling, so it only takes Jesse a week of sweeping every casino and gambling house in Numbani to pin down the guy's favorite haunt.

It's a seedy gambling den, deep in the bowels of the city. For once, Jesse dresses down for the occasion, throwing nondescript, casual clothing over his body armor and shoving Peacekeeper into the back of his belt, where the cut of his light, baggy jacket will hide the bulge of the gun.

Posing as an ordinary American tourist, he frequents Tejuoso's favorite gambling den for several nights straight, until he has the man's schedule memorized.

The man is never without a small escort of heavily armed private guards. He travels to and from the den in an armored car. He stays two hours a night on weekdays, and up to eight on the weekends. He spends about half his time on the public floor and half inside the private rooms.

A few days pass. On the fourth night, Jesse lays his head on the greasy counter of the bar and feigns drunkenness as usual, while automatically tracking Tejuoso's movements across the public floor — he's currently at a poker table, spitting and snarling at the dealer.

Jesse's fast and precise enough that he could whip his gun out and shoot the man dead right now, but he'd have absolutely no chance of escaping unharmed afterwards. Too many factors on the public floor, too much security around — both the gambling house's own guards and Tejuoso's private guards. Jesse would have better luck doing the kill when Tejuoso is inside one of those private gambling rooms — but they're invitation-only, so he'd have to sneak in and out undetected. The balcony might work.

His mind goes suddenly alert when Tejuoso rises from the poker table, shouting one last curse at the dealer as he leaves. His own escort flanks him as he heads down the hall leading to the private rooms. The house security guards posted at the entrance of the hallway don't even spare him a glance — they already know him by reputation.

Jesse is debating the risks of breaking into Tejuoso's private room from the balcony outside, when the front doors suddenly open.

A stranger enters the gambling house.

Every eye in the den follows him across the room, and for good reason. He's east Asian, which is already unusual in Numbani, but that's far from the only thing. There's also the expensive suit and briefcase. The way he stalks across the public floor like he owns the filthy place and isn't pleased about it. The fact that he's gorgeous enough to restore one's faith in divine providence.

From the bar, Jesse watches as the man heads straight for the same hallway leading off to the private rooms. The house security guards stop him for only a quick second before they let him through. They don't even touch the large briefcase.

If he wasn't so obviously and unmistakably a rich asshole, he would be exactly Jesse's type. But Jesse's been burned enough times in the past that he knows better than to ever get involved with folks like that — he'll keep his appreciation superficial, and that's all there is to it.

Anyway, he's still on the job, so he puts the stranger out of his mind.

Jesse heaves himself up off the bar and wanders outside with the slow, deliberate gait of the consciously drunk. Once he's out of the building, in the empty darkness of the street, he drops the pretence and straightens up.

Time to get to work.

He efficiently circles the perimeter until he's pinned down the approximate location of Tejuoso's private room, based on his mental map of the building.

The room is on the second floor, so Jesse scales the wall before dropping silently onto the shadowed balcony. He cocks his gun. Tilts his head and listens through the drawn curtains — if there's any less than eleven people in the room, he's confident he can get them all in one instant.

He slowly picks out the muffled sound of voices from inside, and also adds Tejuoso’s silent guards to the tally. Seven, eight— no more than nine people. Perfect. He'll go for the kill with Tejuoso, and incapacitating shots for the others. Dominant shoulders should do it — enough to disable the guards, not lethal for guests.

He's just preparing himself to smash through the sliding glass door when he hears a sudden thump from inside. Jesse freezes.

Then all of a sudden, there's screaming and shouting and the roar of gunfire.

Jesse drops flat on his stomach and crawls to the right side of the balcony, just to avoid any stray bullets that might make it outside. But he soon realizes that the gunfire seems to be largely concentrated in the opposite direction.

Something’s gone horribly wrong inside. Maybe some sort of business deal. He's not going to stick around long enough to find out. Jesse eases himself up into a crouch, preparing to retreat down the side of the building.

Then, over the gunfire, he suddenly hears a loud, foreign shout. He whips around just as the glass partition to the balcony explodes outwards, right in front of his eyes.

That's when he sees the dragons. Two of them, vivid luminescent blue, coiled around each other in an intricate dance. Their jaws wide open and snapping, just missing Jesse as they pass by. They stream out of the room and into the open air, disappearing into the dark of the night.

Jesse's still frozen against the railing, staring blankly, when someone else runs out onto the balcony.

It's the stranger from before. He's considerably more disheveled, his hair coming loose from its pomade, his face red with exertion. A recurve bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. The left sleeve of his suit completely torn off, revealing an intricate blue and gold tattoo.

A dragon, coiling down his shoulder and arm.

Holy Mother of God, Jesse thinks.

It takes the stranger a split second to realize he's not alone on the balcony. When he sees Jesse, he stiffens and immediately levels his bow and arrow at Jesse.

Jesse automatically whips Peacekeeper up in response.

They stare at each other, frozen. At a stalemate.

The stranger's face twists with displeasure. He lets out a curse in a language that sound like Japanese — before proceeding to leap over the side of the balcony.

Jesse gapes. He rushes over to the railing.

When he looks down, the stranger has vanished.

Jesse stares down into the dark and empty street for a long time, too stunned to even move. Eventually, he forces his legs into motion.

He turns around and steps gingerly through the shattered glass, into the destroyed room. He considers the scene. Bodies are strewn about the floor in various states of incapacitation. The air smells like ozone and thunderstorms. And Tejuoso is dead.

Jesse realizes his heart — normally so calm in these battle situations — is now going a mile a minute.

"Holy Mother of God," he says, aloud this time.

He just met Dragonstrike.

-

It takes only two weeks before they meet again.

Jesse is in Oasis, but for pleasure rather than business. After meeting up with a few old contacts, he wanders the city aimlessly, for once without a target in mind.

He's once again slipped into his usual American tourist guise — a more accurate image this time since he really is a tourist, although he's not nearly so harmless. The heat of the day has forced him into a thinner body armor beneath his Hawaiian shirt and shorts — barely enough to protect from weaker rounds to the torso — but he'd rather have that than nothing at all. Since there's nowhere on his body that could conceal the bulge of a gun, Peacekeeper is instead tucked into the zipped side pocket of his backpack, where a water bottle would normally go.

He wears the backpack on his front and thumbs the side pocket absently as he admires the clean white architecture and frescoes that are so ubiquitous to Oasis.

He's just taking a break by the large fountain near the bustling city center when he sees Dragonstrike. Sitting alone at a table outside a cafe, sipping an iced tea.

Jesse's eyes pass automatically over him the first time, before he chokes and does a double take.

The man looks completely different. Gone is the expensive suit and briefcase, the slick pomade in his hair. Now, he's in full tourist mode, just like Jesse. He's got a battered guitar case at his feet, which is where his bow must be stashed. His hair's tied up and he's wearing a pair of shades, board shorts, and a deep cut tank top that shows off every inch of his well-built torso. He must have done something to his left arm because Jesse can't see a hint of that distinctive dragon tattoo — maybe it's heavy duty skin paint, or a flesh-colored sleeve.

The only reason Jesse even recognizes him at all is because the memory of that man standing on the balcony, bow and arrow leveled towards Jesse's head, is burned into his retinas.

Jesse stares at Dragonstrike long enough to realize that the man is on duty.

The shades help disguise it, but after closer examination, it becomes evident to Jesse that he's watching someone else from across the square. Jesse follows his line of sight to a woman sitting at a bench, chatting with someone else.

Jesse recognizes the face of the target instantly. It passed by his radar only recently — Catherine Shelby. By all appearances, an ordinary socialite, happily married with no kids. In reality, the second highest ranking member of a group running one of the largest omnic trafficking rings in the States. There was a contract for her head a short while back, but Jesse wasn't in the right place at the time, and the offer was soon snapped up. She must be here on vacation now.

And Dragonstrike must have followed. Of _course_ he's the one who nabbed the contract — does the man ever take a damn break?

Jesse watches Dragonstrike sit there and sip his tea for longer than strictly necessary. That tank top is positively obscene.

After a while, Shelby and her friend get up and leave the square. At the same moment, Dragonstrike drains his iced tea and rises from his chair. He shoulders his guitar case and follows after them, with every appearance of an ordinary, wandering tourist.

After a split second of hesitation, Jesse follows.

It's a strange way to explore the city.

Their little train of people moves through all the major tourist spots in Oasis, from the city center to the gardens to the University. Shelby and her friend at the front, chattering away. Dragonstrike following, shades up, guitar case slung over his back. And Jesse bringing up the rear, thumbing the pocket of his bag more restlessly now that he's aware that shit is eventually going to happen.

Finally, Shelby and her friend seem to decide that they're done for the day. They start heading back to their hotel, and make the dubious decision of taking a more secluded route. Dragonstrike, of course, follows.

It becomes harder for Jesse to trail them discreetly when there aren't crowds of other tourists around to blend in with. He has to hang back further, following from a greater distance, sticking to the walls and shadows of the alleyways whenever possible.

Jesse isn't surprised when he finally loses sight of them.

He sighs, a little disappointed, but continues down the same narrow, winding street anyway. If his internal GPS is correct, he's not too far from his own hotel.

Then, he turns the corner and sees the bodies.

Well, shit.

When he gets a little closer, he can see that Shelby is dead — an arrowhead-shaped wound at the base of her neck — but the friend is only unconscious.

Dragonstrike is nowhere to be seen.

Jesse gives a low whistle and shakes his head. Leaving the area immediately after a kill is obviously the most rational decision — but based on what both of them saw today, Shelby's friend is nothing more than a civvie. And although Dragonstrike only left her unconscious — either out of mercy or because it would delay the reporting of the murder and subsequent police response by a good couple hours — nonetheless, Dragonstrike should know full well that he's basically leaving a civvie to wake up next to her friend's corpse.

"What a stone cold bastard," Jesse says aloud, almost admiring.

And of course that's the moment when someone grabs him from behind and shoves him to the ground, pinning his right arm behind his back.

Jesse's too surprised to even shout out. He immediately thinks of twenty seven different ways to break out of the grip, but before he can try even one of them, he hears a deep, raspy voice next to his ear.

"You have been following me around all day. Who are you and what do you want?"

It's Dragonstrike. Ridiculously, Jesse's heart leaps.

"I'm another merc, but off duty— was only just curious, hon," Jesse says, sweet talking as best he can with his face in the pavement and his bag crushed under his stomach, gun out of reach. "Wanted to see how you were gonna deal with Shelby. Didn't mean no harm by it—"

He abruptly quiets as he feels something sharp against the base of his neck, just the barest whisper of a threat. It's probably the head of another arrow. Maybe even the same arrow that was used on Shelby.

"Do not lie to me. Who sent you?" Dragonstrike demands. "Was it the family? No," he mutters to himself, "they'd never send someone so loud and obvious—"

"Hey, I can be subtle," Jesse says, slightly put out. The arrow presses ever so slightly harder against his skin and he tenses. Automatically, he picks one of his twenty seven options and prepares to execute it. "Jeez, you really gonna kill me now?" he asks lightly — mostly to keep the guy talking.

But there is only a pause, then a heavy exhale from behind him, before the point of the arrow eases. "No," Dragonstrike says, sounding irritated. "I never kill on a whim— not even idiot bounty hunters who should know better than to follow me," he adds. He twists his grip until the pressure on Jesse's shoulder grows almost painful. "Do not make the same mistake again. I will not be so forgiving the next time, and you may not live to regret it." Then, the pressure on Jesse disappears entirely.

By the time Jesse scrambles to his feet and turns around, Dragonstrike is already gone. Leaving Jesse alone with the bodies.

Jesse rubs his right wrist absently. His skin is still burning where the other man grabbed him.

-

It's another month before they meet for a third time, and this time it's definitely not Jesse's fault.

Jesse is somewhere in Nepal, standing over the dead body of a notorious terrorist bomber and considering the artless splay of limbs as he reloads his weapon.

It's past midnight and the streets are deserted, which is why he's so alarmed when he hears a low, raspy voice coming from above and behind him.

"What did I tell you the last time?"

Jesse has his gun pointed up at the man before he even sees him. But then his brain catches up to his eyes, and he realizes the shadowed figure crouched gargoyle-like on the first floor ledge of the nearby building is Dragonstrike.

Jesse realizes, delayed, that he was just asked a question.

"Aw, now that ain't fair," Jesse says, with a shake of his head. "I know I don't have the best track record, but I actually wasn't following you this time. Just the target." He grins despite himself. "Matter of fact, I got here first — so who's to say you weren't the one following _me_?"

There's an irritated huff. "Do not be ridiculous. I came to Nepal for the target."

"Well, you found him," Jesse says, gesturing unnecessarily down at the body with the barrel of his gun. "Bit too late though, sorry. You planning to come down from there any time soon?"

A pause. Then, a blunt "No."

"Alright, then."

Dragonstrike watches in silence as Jesse arranges the body so both the face and the bullet wound to the forehead are visible under the orange light of a streetlamp. He snorts as Jesse pulls out a pre-paid, disposable phone and snaps a photo of the body.

"What? They want proof," Jesse says, as he texts it to his client. "Don't yours?" He frowns as he recalls the other times he's seen Dragonstrike — the man has always left the scene of the crime immediately afterwards.

"Mine do not demand proof," Dragonstrike says loftily. "They trust that I get the job done."

"Well, good for you." Jesse rolls his eyes. "Though that doesn't much surprise me. You obviously can and do, with that number of kills."

There's a pause. "How would you know about my number of kills?" Dragonstrike asks eventually, his voice dangerously soft.

Ah, shit. Jesse rapidly backtracks. "Just assuming! You know, based on your obvious experience—"

"Have you been investigating me, hunter?"

"Not since we last met, no," Jesse says weakly.

Dragonstrike drops silently from the ledge and onto the street. Jesse's hand twitches on the trigger of his gun as the other man approaches, silhouetted by the streetlamp at his back. His face is entirely in shadow and a nocked bow is in his hands.

"Did you discover much about me in your searching, hunter?" the man says conversationally. His voice grows low with menace. "Do you know my name? Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Jesse blurts. "You're Dragonstrike." His voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

There's a long pause. Jesse can feel the heavy weight of a stare on his face.

All of a sudden, the man lets out a low, rough laugh. "Yes. Dragonstrike. Of course. I suppose that is all I am now." He sounds pensive.

Jesse is confused, but glad that the strange, threatening tension seems to be gone.

Then, he blinks as Dragonstrike abruptly turns and scales the wall again. It takes only a second before he's climbed all three stories and reached the roof.

"Oh, uh— don't you wanna know who I am?" Jesse yells after his rapidly disappearing figure.

He sees Dragonstrike pause on the edge of the rooftop, a crouching figure lit up from behind by the moon.

"I know who you are, Jesse McCree," the man says. He sounds amused. "I have seen the wanted posters— your face is quite unmistakable, and your bounty absurd." His figure rises to standing. "If I was in this job for the money, I would have been sorely tempted — so be thankful I am not. Otherwise, your life would have already been mine."

The figure vanishes and Jesse is left staring up at the roof, starry-eyed.

Jesse's life might not be his, but his heart is well on its way.

-

Jesse doesn't know what it is — fate, coincidence, or what — but they keep running into each other.

Sydney. Busan. Dorado. Los Angeles. And so on.

They're always after the same scummy targets. Dragonstrike lands some of them, Jesse lands some others. They usually meet over the bodies, after the job is already done — although, on a few memorable occasions, Jesse is there to witness the kill, or vice versa.

Sometimes, they have the time to exchange words over a fresh and slowly cooling corpse. Other times, the situation is too chaotic, and Jesse only catches a glimpse of the other man from a distance before he vanishes from sight. But it's always distinctly, unmistakably him.

Jesse _knows_ from personal experience just how easily the man is able to conceal himself, to entirely hide his presence beyond that lingering post-storm air. And when Jesse wracks his brain, he can't think of any reason why he would suddenly see Dragonstrike everywhere now… except the possibility that the man has been _choosing_ to reveal himself to Jesse. It's a thrilling thought, and a dangerous one.

The seventh time they meet, Jesse earns nickname privileges.

They're in Los Angeles, idly chatting — comparing the average volume of screaming from different types of targets — as Jesse strips down the body of an organ trader.

"The white collar ones are always the loudest, I've found. Ain't that right, Dragonstrike?" Jesse's saying — at which point, the man grimaces.

"I agree with you," he clarifies, in response to Jesse's questioning look. "...But must you insist on always using that ridiculous moniker?"

Jesse blinks. Personally, he thought it was cool, but then again, he's never had any alias but his own name.

"Just don't have anything else to call you," Jesse says, shrugging. "I take it you didn't choose it yourself?"

The other man gives a quick shake of the head. "One of my first clients grew… creative, after inadvertently witnessing what I was capable of. The name stuck, quite against my will." He considers Jesse with that deep, dark stare of his. For a moment, he seems to hesitate. "If you must call me something, then… Ryu will suffice," he says at last.

Jesse pretends not to notice his unease, or the false name that he is obviously unaccustomed to giving. "Ryu it is," he says cheerfully.

Let the man have his secrets. Lord knows Jesse has enough of his own.

Over time, as they continue to meet and talk, Jesse begins to learn more and more about Ryu. And each time he does, he mentally updates his growing list of information. Gradually, piece by piece, he begins to form a better picture of the man — until he soon knows far more than would fit on a single piece of paper.

Now, Jesse knows all about the cleanness of his shot execution. The brutal efficiency of his killing method. The creativity of his disguises — almost varied enough to rival Jesse's own enormous repertoire.

Jesse also knows the rough outlines of his philosophy, his justice, his morals. The fact that all of them strongly align with Jesse's own. The fact that he, like Jesse, is also working this dirty job to atone for the sins of his past, whatever they may be.

But most tellingly, Jesse now knows the exact cherry-red shade of his embarrassment. The precise angle of his subtle, curling smile. The rare and miraculous sound of his laughter.  

Nine months since all of this began, Jesse watches as Ryu rifles efficiently through the pockets of a corpse in Giza in search of a vital flash drive, and thinks to himself that he is definitely in love.

"Work with me," Jesse says.

He speaks without thinking, but once the words are out, they feel right.

"Let's be partners. We can hunt all these assholes together. Split the rewards fifty-fifty."

Ryu's head is still bowed over the body, hiding his expression, but Jesse sees his entire back stiffen. It only grows stiffer with every word out of Jesse's mouth. There is a pause. Jesse can practically hear him thinking.

"Why would you make such an offer?" Ryu says at last. He sounds genuinely confused. "Do I really steal so many of your targets that you must resort to this strategy to recover your losses?"

Jesse laughs. "You know it's not about the money for me neither." He rubs his neck, a little sheepish. "Lately, I've just been thinking about how much I'd like it if someone I trusted was watching my back for once, and vice versa. And I realized that maybe I want you to be that someone."

There is a longer silence this time.

Then, Ryu snaps his head up. His expression is inexplicably furious.

"You are mistaken," he bites out. He rises to his feet, flash drive in hand. "My answer is no. No to working with you. No to all of it." He gives a stiff nod of farewell and leaves.

His shadow vanishes around the corner almost immediately. Jesse, stunned, doesn't bother following.

Instead, he just stands there and wonders.

Does Ryu think Jesse is wrong for trusting him, or wrong for wanting to?

And does it even make a difference?

-

He doesn't see Ryu again for a long time.

-

About a year has passed from their first meeting when Jesse finally tracks Ryu down to make a second offer of partnership.

Out of professional courtesy, ever since they've properly met, the two of them have never deliberately sought out the other — in this line of work, being followed is always a bad omen. So, their meetings have always been unplanned, the result of shared targets bringing them together.

But ever since Ryu got spooked, it's as if he's vanished off the face of the earth — as if Jesse's gone back to that time when he was only just realizing that someone out there was stealing his kills. When Dragonstrike was only just a strange and intriguing alias on a piece of paper.

Jesse is reminded once again that tracking down Ryu is much harder when he doesn't want to be found. The man's information trail is plagued with false leads and dead ends, just as surely and deliberately as Jesse's own.

But finally, Jesse hears a rumor that Ryu may be in Hong Kong. Using one of his many false passports and papers, he catches a flight over at once.

It takes only two days of sweeping the densely populated metropolis before he finds Ryu at a dimly lit, upscale lounge in Tsim Sha Tsui. It's a hot and windless night. Jesse pays the exorbitant entrance fee, enters the lounge, and immediately sees Ryu sitting alone at the bar at the back.

He's staring disinterestedly into his cocktail, ignoring all the discreet and not-so-discreet glances of interest thrown his way by the other patrons of the bar.

It looks like he's waiting for someone.

Jesse crosses the floor of the lounge, through soft neon lights and low, pulsing music — his eyes always fixed on the sight of the other man.

In the months they've been apart, Ryu has changed his look yet again. Tight black shirt and ripped jeans. Tattoo covered up as always. A faded undercut, the rest of his hair pulled up into a topknot. The silvery gleam of several piercings whenever he moves his head.

It looks good on him, like everything always does.

"Come here often?"

Without even turning around, Ryu says, "Do you remember what I once said about following me? And how you would not live to regret it?"

"I know, I know." Jesse slides into the bar stool next to Ryu. He doesn't take the threat too seriously. Both of them know full well that if Ryu really didn't want to be found by anyone, he wouldn't. Which means that Ryu has allowed this situation to happen. Which means that this is Jesse's chance.

"I missed you," Jesse says. "And I wanted to see you. To talk."

"Talk, then."

"Work with me," Jesse says, just like he did four months ago in Giza.

"No," Ryu says sharply — also exactly like back then. There is a silence, before he continues, in stiff explanation, "I work best alone. I always have."

"That's exactly what I thought about myself for the longest time," Jesse says. "And then I met you."

Ryu scowls. "Spare me your lines." He drains his glass and sets it back onto the counter with care — like it takes conscious effort not to break it. "We were getting along fine until you started trying this, this..." He growls, unable to even finish his sentence. "I should not even have to explain how foolish it would be for you to trust me. Why do you persist in this matter?"

Jesse shrugs. He's had a lot of time alone to consider the question himself and he still doesn't have a good reason. "I guess it's just because I like you. And so I want to. Isn’t that enough?"

Ryu sneers a little. "You believe that the trivial time we have spent together is enough to make that judgement, and you are wrong. You do not like me, Jesse McCree, because you hardly even know me. You have no idea who I was or what I have done—"

"But I don't need to," Jesse interrupts. "Because I know who you _are_ and what you do _now_ _—_ " Ryu snorts and Jesse continues, grinning a little despite himself, "Granted, all the murdering isn't the easiest sell — but I know you do this for the same reasons I do." His voice softens. "You do this because you've done things in the past that you aren't proud of, and you never want to sink that low again. You do this because it’s the only way you can even _begin_ to make things right again.”

Ryu is completely silent now.

"I know you don't trust yourself anymore. Hell, you probably never will," Jesse says. "But I can — I want to, and I know I can learn to. And maybe, over time, you can learn to trust me as well."

The alternating layers of darkness and neon light cast strange shadows on Ryu's face. Twisting and warping the successive shades of shame, doubt, and fear. Then, finally, resolving into resignation.

"You're going to regret this," Ryu says at last. “I swear you will.”

Jesse's grin widens. "So, is that a yes to teaming up?"

"Yes," Ryu says. There is a wry twist to his mouth. "Foolish as it may be, I missed you as well. And it is just as you said— I have grown sick of relying on nobody but myself."

Jesse sticks out his hand. "Partners?"

"Partners." Ryu shakes it. His hand is warm and solid. His eyes dark and unreadable.

Jesse knows, just as Ryu says, that there is a good chance that he will regret this. Or that he may not even live long enough to do so. But as Jesse holds Ryu’s hand — as he breathes in, filling his lungs with ozone, feeling his heart hammer rapid-fast against his ribcage — he realizes that he doesn’t care.

No one ever said Jesse McCree was the most rational of men.

Romance may be dead — but for now, the two of them are alive and well.

**Author's Note:**

> more unbetaed weirdness  
> as usual, critique and feedback always welcome
> 
> edit: there is now a sequel from hanzo's POV if you're into that (;


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